A Seat in the Stars
by Boston Flare
Summary: Eight months after the strike, the newsies' lives are caught in a whirlwind of change. At the center lie Irving Hall, where dark secrets fester, and three strangers from Brooklyn who trigger a chain of events that will bring those secrets to light.
1. Prologue

**Dedication: **For all the amazing members of the former Manhattan and Sunrise Lodging Houses whose characters helped Macbeth, Scamp, and April to grow and develop way back when; especially DJ, Irish, Relic, Stretch, Zippy, Spitball, Ershey, and Piker/Echo.

**Disclaimer: **_Newsies _and its characters belong to Disney. I am using them without permission. No copyright infringement intended. No money was made. The title of this story and the quotations at the beginning of each chapter are from Sophocles' _Antigone_; I'm fairly certain the copyright has expired.

A Seat in the Stars

By Flare Higgins

_The bride has but to glance_

_With the lyrical light of her eyes_

_To win you a seat in the stars_

_And Aphrodite laughs._

**Prologue**

**Early March**

**1900**

"Ain't really much to establish here. Rent's due promptly on the first o' the month. Spiders an' rats won't bother youse much. Door might stick a little, but just give 'er a good shove..."

"We'll take it." Alexander was already fishing a wad of bills from his pocket. His intent was thwarted by April's hand on his wrist.

"Listen, Mister," she cut in with a winning smile, "I know times are rough, but are these really your usual rates? Wouldn't you consider goin' a little..." She took a step toward the landlord, her smile changing, letting her red dress ride up to expose the briefest flash of bare calf. "...lower?"

The landlord colored and began to look her over. What he saw was promising enough: a seventeen-year-old knockout, her dress cut too low at the top and too high at the bottom for propriety, taking advantage of every endowment her figure possessed. She would have been a beauty in modest attire, with cinnamon skin, cascades of auburn hair, and laughter in her light brown eyes, but her manner made it clear that she was used to doing more than turning heads.

Alex rolled his eyes and yanked his sister behind him as if she were an unruly child, though she was, in fact, a year his senior. "We'll take it," he repeated, shoving his cash into the landlord's face. The man blinked and took it, his eyes still perusing April's neckline.

"Right, well...youse let me know if you need anything." He winked at April and hesitated, glancing at the door of their new apartment. Alex knew what was coming. "The little girl...there somethin' wrong with her?"

"Elizabeth is fourteen years old," Alex replied steadily. "She don't like to talk much, and she don't think much of...well, anyone, really." April snorted in agreement. "But there ain't nothin' _wrong _with her, 'cept that she suffered a loss a few weeks back. Long as no one bothers her, she won't cause no trouble." _In fact, _he added silently with a spark of grim amusement, _when it comes to the sorta trouble you're worried about, Lizzy's actually the angel of the bunch._

"Well, you just keep an eye on 'er." The older man smirked. "Pair o' sisters like yours, kid, you got your hands full."

"Yeah...they keep me hoppin'." Alex traded glances with April. Chuckling, their new landlord turned to let himself out and leapt back with an exclamation of shock.

She stood right on the threshold, small, scrawny, and white as a ghost, her large black eyes narrowed in a round baby face suggesting a much younger child. Her black hair barely brushed her chin, cut so unevenly that it appeared to have been hacked off with a knife. A black wool skirt swished around her ankles, as wrinkled and neglected as her matching blouse.

"Eavesdroppin' again, Beth?" April observed.

She didn't answer. Her eyes moved coldly over the apartment's three occupants. The landlord shifted uncomfortably and, after a few seconds, shoved his way past her and disappeared down the hallway. It was Elizabeth herself who broke the silence, addressing both of her companions.

"So I'm your sister now?" she snapped.

"Welcome to the fam'ly." Alex ran his fingers through his own black hair and gave her a weak smile. "C'mon, Lizzy, what else was I gonna tell him? That I'm settin' up housekeepin' with my half-sister and the girl who lived down the hall from us back in Brooklyn?"

"Can't be compromisin' my reputation, can we?" The heavy irony behind Beth's words brought the tension in the room to an all-time high. Then Alex cracked a real smile.

"Hey, it might as well be true. Me an' April've spent more time in your apartment than ours these past few years."

A fragile moment passed, and Beth arched an eyebrow. "Yeah, I seem to remember fallin' asleep ev'ry other night with my 'big brother' curled up at the foot of my bed."

Alex blushed beneath his swarthy complexion. "Well, now we ain't even got one bed to sleep on, so why don't we set these bags down and take a look at what we _have _got?"

The three of them dumped the cloth sacks holding all their worldly possessions, then stood back, shoulder-to-shoulder against the door, and surveyed their new home. It was not an inspiring sight. Bare and unfurnished, there was nothing to draw the eye except a thick layer of dust on the floor, cobwebs festooning the walls, an ancient woodstove, a wilted broom abandoned by the former occupants, and a dead bird in the far right corner, surrounded by entrails and broken glass. It lay beneath a window crisscrossed with strips of plywood; beams of diluted sunlight straggled through to illuminate the grisly scene. The other windows, scratched and cloudy, offered a distorted view of the row of factories across the street, belching columns of black smoke into an overcast sky.

"We need money," Beth announced.

"There's a lonely-lookin' Irishman down the hall," April said brightly.

Alex was not amused. "I was thinkin' I'd go out and work the crowds a little."

"While me an' Beth scrub bird guts off the floor?" April grimaced. "You're a peach."

"Both o' youse go," Elizabeth grumbled. "I'll handle the bird guts."

Alex and April's eyes met over the top of her head. Beth's lips curled into a tight, humorless smile. "And if I see _one more _o' those looks-"

"Good luck," April chirped, hurrying out into the hall. Alex squeezed Beth's shoulder and followed his sister, closing the door behind him. True to the landlord's warning, it stuck. With a grunt of effort, he rammed his shoulder against it, shoving it into its frame. It was a welcome distraction from the twist of anxiety in his gut at the thought of leaving the younger girl alone.

* * *

The door closed with a bang and a shudder, and Elizabeth's stomach swooped. She couldn't be sure whether it was a sensation of dread or relief; probably some twisted combination. Taking in the one-room hovel again, she let out a quick, angry hiss and went for the broom. Her footsteps echoed off the walls. Panic fluttered in her chest.

_Relax, _she chided herself, her inner monologue taking its usual caustic tone. _You're not really alone, are you?_

She abandoned the broom and wandered over to the dead bird in the corner. Kneeling, she examined the tiny, mangled corpse. It had been a pigeon. Shards of glass protruded between matted grey feathers, but the downy throat, miraculously unpierced, gleamed emerald and amethyst. It must have been soaring through the air at breakneck speed, flying blind in the dark or the rain, and crashed right through the window.

Glass had slashed the little creature's belly open, spilling a tangle of crimson innards. As Elizabeth bent toward them, the rank smell overwhelmed her. A sick shock ran through her body, and her mind went blank.

_She stood in a shabby boardinghouse-unpolished wood, low ceiling beams, patchy yellow light from a scattering of cheap tapers. Row upon row of beds, but only one was occupied; the other boarders had fled as soon as the moans began. Before they escalated into screams. Even Elizabeth backed away as her sister's cries of pain shattered the night. As Adeline's legs and sheets and the surrounding floor drowned in a river of red. As the copper tang of blood enveloped the room like a haze of panic._

_The young midwife lost control, crying into her bloodstained apron, praying in a strangled brogue: "For those who suffer, and those who cry this night, give them repose, Lord; a pause in their burdens..."_

_Beth flew at her, blind with anger, shoving her against the bed, clawing at her face. "Do somethin'! Do somethin'! Help her!"_

_Then she pushed the sobbing woman aside and knelt beside Ada herself, reached for her sister, clutched at her, till she herself was sticky and red up to her elbows, till the screams faded into a last rasping breath..._

"Lizzy?"

Beth started, and the cold, stiff pigeon slipped from her grasp. Dark flakes of dried blood clung to her hands. She looked up to see Alex standing over her, trying in vain to hide the concern in his dark brown eyes. "April sent me back to remind you to lock the door. She figures the Irishman might have dishonorable intentions."

Elizabeth rose slowly, brushing the flakes from her hands. "I'll do that," she growled.

The boy wavered, hands clasped behind his back. "Look, if you wanna come with-"

"Get the hell outta here, Scamp."

He winced at the use of his street name and backed toward the door.

"Don't stay out too late," Beth added, prompted, perhaps, by a faint twinge of guilt. "Storm's comin'."


	2. Headlong Folly

**Author's Note: **This is the longest first chapter in the history of _ever_. I heartily apologize; there was a hell of a lot to set up. Future chapters will be much, much shorter. Probably.

The first encounter with Skittery is an echo of my character's first encounter with him at the Manhattan Lodging House. His first two lines-brief but eloquent-were originally written by Dakota Jones. In fact, his whole characterization is inspired by DJ, RP mentor and genius extraordinaire, who would have written him ten times better than I have.

**Chapter One: Headlong Folly**

_And all because of headlong folly and the reckless speech_

_Of a frenzied heart._

"The problem is, you're too damn honest."

Samuel Snoddy eyed his friend in silent amusement. Specs was always like this, blunt and to the point, his words coming out fast and loud and vaguely menacing. It always made Snoddy smile, because Specs was the very picture of respectability, striding down the street in his clean white button-down shirts and brown vests, with that jaunty top hat and those glasses. The kid talked like a gangster and looked like he worked on Wall Street.

"Some folks still go for the real headlines, y'know," Snoddy said at last with an easy smile. He was in a pretty good mood despite the weather.

March was a fickle month for newsies-one day warm and breezy, the next bitter and windy, with drizzly mornings clearing up and sunny mornings melting into rain-soaked afternoons. Just now, dark clouds swirled overhead, threatening to break any moment, but as far as Snoddy was concerned, the noon sun could have been blazing in a clear blue sky. He was hawking headlines from his favorite street corner, he had his night job at the factory if the papers didn't sell, and he had Janet.

_Janet McCloud. _Snoddy grinned as her dimpled face and tawny head surfaced in his mind. She had worn his ring for a month now, and while it was a cheap trinket that he was still paying off to a pitying pawnbroker, the commitment it represented was real enough. Ever since he had knocked on her door and handed her a copy of the _Newsies Banner_, she had owned him, heart and soul. And in another six months, it would all be legal.

"I ain't talkin' about the headlines, _amico_," Specs scoffed, shaking Snoddy out of his romantic reverie. "I'm talkin' about your birthday. Half the fellas in the lodgin' house lie about their ages to keep a roof over their heads for a couple more years. But you had to go and give Kloppman the honest-to-God date, so you're gettin' booted the moment you turn eighteen. Which is in..."

"Two weeks," Snoddy finished brightly. "I know when my birthday is, Specs. And it ain't like I got nothin' to look forward to."

"Right." Specs bit off the word with a theatrical curl of the lip. "No more papers. A full-time job at the factory. An apartment of your own. And _Janet_."

Snoddy's brow furrowed as he searched for a fair reply. Patience, good sense, and a peaceful demeanor had always characterized him among the older Duane Street newsboys, but this particular topic was really starting to wear down his nerves. He kept his voice light.

"Well, what about you, Specs? You left the lodgin' house three months ago. Didn't even _wait _for your birthday. You're drivin' a cab, and you got your apartment on Mulberry, not to mention your wife. A stepdaughter, too, if I recall correctly."

Specs sighed. "Snoddy, it's different with Holly. She's...we're _alike_, me an' her. And I love Alicia like she was my own little girl. But Janet ain't-"

"I know," Snoddy interrupted, his voice too even. "She ain't on my level. She's too classy for me. She'll be shocked by my vulgar manners and ignorance, and she'll leave me for some doctor or lawyer."

"I never said that," Specs protested, flushing a bit. "I just don't think it's gonna work out. Her fam'ly don't like you much, do they? I know they ain't rich folks by any stretch, but Janet's used to a house and a garden, and church on Sundays, and her father or brother lookin' after her every minute. She ain't our _kind_, all right?"

"Unlike Holly," Snoddy said quietly, "who came waltzin' in from the country claimin' to be a widow, with a baby girl she coulda gotten from any man under the sun."

He didn't even have time to regret the words. A burst of pain exploded in his right eye. He reeled back and let out an involuntary cry. Before anything made sense, a shrill whistle pierced the air, and a uniformed policeman appeared out of nowhere, seizing Specs and snapping a pair of handcuffs onto his wrists.

"Sir, you are under arrest for assault and disturbing the peace."

At whiplash speed, the scowls on the two boys' faces were transformed into identical expressions of shock.

The moment he could get his mouth to work, Snoddy found himself babbling, shaking his head frantically. "No, no, no, look, it's all my fault. He's my friend. I provoked 'im. I don't wanna press charges or nothin'-"

"One more word and you'll be spendin' the night behind bars, too," the cop growled. "I don't know what neck o' the woods you hoodlums hail from, but we don't tolerate public violence around here. Next we'll have riotin' mobs on our hands, won't we? Right under the nose of an officer o' the law. Damn hoodlums."

A crowd had begun to gather around the scene, and several men offered their own colorful adjectives for the prisoner. Specs flashed them all a hard smirk, having apparently regained his composure, and with it, his sharp tongue. "Yeah, sorry you had to see that, officer. I sure as hell woulda spared you the sight if I'd known you were passin' through."

"That's _two _nights in lock-up," the cop announced, cuffing him on the ear. As Snoddy watched in helpless disbelief, the man began to stride away, dragging a pale, disbelieving Specs. The captive twisted around to shoot Snoddy a glare that froze his blood.

"You better go tell Holly what happened, or I'll kill ya when I get out!"

"Three nights!" the officer thundered.

Snoddy stood in the middle of the street and watched them disappear into the crowd.

The crowd itself didn't last long. Everyone had somewhere to be, and they took off in different directions, chuckling to themselves, grateful for the break in their dull routines. Snoddy continued to stand in the middle of the street for another minute or two, his eye stinging and his head reeling, wondering whether his day could possibly get any worse.

Then the heavens broke.

Muttering a curse after checking the vicinity for ladies and youngsters, Snoddy shouldered his bag of papers and rushed to take cover beneath the awning of the nearest shop.

The wind howled and drove a solid sheet of rain so hard that the drops hit the concrete like bullets. The handful of scruffy trees bent in unison, first one way and then the other, their branches swaying in a violent ballet. The streets turned to rivers; horses and carriages splashed and skidded through the intersection, water spraying from their wheels and hooves.

"It never rains but it pours," Snoddy muttered. It was the kind of gloomy cliché Skittery was so fond of-or used to be, back when he still said two words to anyone that weren't "Fuck off." Snoddy winced; Skittery was the last thing he wanted to think about right now. Better to wonder how he was going to get these papes sold in the rain, or win over Janet's parents, or explain to his friend's wife that he had just gotten her husband arrested.

Muttering darkly, he shoved his hands into his pockets and let out a yelp. _There was another hand nestled next to his_.

Snoddy seized the arm attached to the invading hand, spun around, and found himself looking into the startled face of a short, slight boy, around fifteen or sixteen, with olive skin, dark brown eyes, and unruly black hair.

"Sorry! Wrong pocket," the boy announced with a disarming grin.

"Really?" Snoddy twisted the kid's arm harder. He flinched, and Snoddy felt a flash of guilt, but he dismissed it soon enough. He had always hated thieves.

"See, I was just walkin' by you when I thought I'd check the time," the kid babbled, examining Snoddy's black eye with trepidation. "So I reached for my watch, and my hand just happened to drop into your pocket 'stead o' mine. Honestly, this's just a-"

"-misunderstandin'." Snoddy's mouth dropped. Around the corner of the shop stepped a gorgeous young woman, red highlights gleaming in her hair, barely wearing a saturated dress that clung to her shapely body. Before his brain could even process the image, much less send him a counter-image of a livid Janet to act as the angel on his shoulder, the girl smiled, flung her arms around his neck, and pressed her lips against his.

Stunned, traumatized, half-falling against the storefront, Snoddy didn't even notice when his fingers slipped from the pickpocket's arm and his captive fled into the storm. The entire bundle of newspapers dropped from his other hand, scattering in the nearest mud puddles, half a day's profits lost. It wasn't until a clap of thunder partially restored his senses that he managed, with a gasp, to disentangle himself from the most passionate kiss of his life.

"Nice meetin' you, kid!" the bombshell laughed, and, tossing her wet hair over her shoulder, she took off without a backward glance.

Still gasping for breath, one hand covering his mouth, the newsboy stared blankly into the street. Then a second peal of thunder re-connected an essential pair of brain cells. Cursing loudly without sparing a thought for ladies or youngsters, Snoddy thrust his hands into his pockets. Empty.

* * *

"Is there a chance," Alex grumbled, "that you could find some other way to-"

"-save your skin?" April smirked. "Sorry, _Scamp, _but I've tested dozens o' ways over the years, and that's the most effective. Even provided a bonus this time." She held up a fistful of coins and waited a perfect beat. "'Sides, he was a decent kisser."

Alex attempted to kill the argument with a weary sigh. This proved fruitless; April soldiered on.

"Our first day. Honestly, Alex, I know you're a little rusty, but couldja at least've avoided gettin' caught on our _first day? _And what were you goin' after a newsie for anyway?"

"I was a little desperate at that point," he answered, scrutinizing his own share of the day's loot in his cupped hands. "We're sorta penniless, 'member?"

"Yeah, but a newsie? They ain't much better off than we are. Hell, I was hardly eatin' when _I_ had to sell papes for a while."

Alex refrained from reminding her that this was because she could barely read and was accustomed to a vastly different vocation. "Most newsies won't go to the bulls on account of a pickpocket. They've all nicked somethin' once or twice, so they know how it is, and some of 'em are on the run themselves. We can't really afford havin' our _only source of income _arrested."

"Not for long," April countered. "I'm gonna try that local place tonight, Irvin' Hall. I hear they're always hirin'."

Alexander gave her a sharp look, but before they could take up an age-old argument, their new tenement loomed into view, and he let it drop for the moment.

"Well," he sighed, turning to the door, "let's see what Lizzy's done with the place."

The scene that greeted them was a singularly dismal one. Elizabeth had not been idle in their absence, but only so much could be done for a low-rent dump.

The dead bird had vanished from the corner, entrails and all. Cobwebs and dust bunnies had been swept out the door, and a threadbare sheet lay on the floor of the single room, scattered with blankets from their combined luggage. Beth herself was curled up in front of the stove, a volume of Shakespeare open in front of her. She did not look up.

Alex groped for a compliment. "This is..."

"Depressin'," April finished brightly. An enormous brown cockroach scuttled across the damp floor, supporting her assessment. "I'm screwin' six men a night if it'll get us outta this place."

In a moment, Alexander's easygoing attitude evaporated, yielding to a rare but vehement explosion. "No, you bloody well ain't! I told you, April, no more o' that, not after Brooklyn, not ever! Was it too much for me to think that you'd _learn_ after everything that happened?"

"What _happened,"_ April shouted right back, flushing, "had nothin' to do with my line of work, and you're the one who just observed that we're penniless-"

"-which don't mean you fall right back on the most degradin' way to make some cash!" Alex retorted.

"Oh, for God's sake, don't get righteous with me, like pickin' pockets is some kinda higher callin'-"

"Both o' youse _shut the hell up!"_

Startled out of their quarrel, they turned to stare at Beth, who had finally emerged from the book, her tone and expression conveying profound disgust. Her eyes lingered dubiously on the puddles of water forming around her shivering comrades. "We make anything today?" she snapped into the tense silence.

"Right." Clearing his throat and giving April a look that let her know she had not won the argument, Alex knelt beside Elizabeth, holding out a handful of change and a silver watch-chain for her inspection. She grunted, which he chose to take as approval.

"How's _Macbeth_ hold up on the eighty-fourth read, Liz?"

Beth shrugged.

"You eat anything?"

She glared, burying herself in the play again, and Alex sighed. He should have remembered that she wouldn't eat unless someone was around to make her.

"Here." He produced a rather bruised apple from his pocket and pressed it into her hand. She glanced at him, then muttered a gruff, "Thanks, kid," before taking an eager bite. Alex didn't bother pointing out that he was older than she was; all boys were 'kid' to Beth.

Face carefully neutral, April took a seat beside the stove, opening it to reveal a few flames flickering halfheartedly atop a pile of curling newspapers. She fed in the armload of dirty rags that she had picked up around the borough throughout the day. The flames hissed and leapt higher, increasing the pool of orange-gold light they cast.

"So..." She closed the stove and addressed herself to Beth, disregarding her brother. "I'm headed to Irvin' Hall tonight. You wanna come?"

Elizabeth didn't even deign the question with a response.

April smirked. "Lemme rephrase that. I'm headed to Irvin' Hall, and you're _gonna_ come."

Beth's head snapped up like a whip. "I'd _bloody well_ like to see you make me!"

"Knew I could get a reaction," said April smugly.

"Do us both a favor and come along, Lizzy," Alex nearly begged, sinking down beside her as she nibbled on her apple. "If only to keep us from killin' each other."

"Wait," April protested, "you're not-"

"Oh yeah, I am." It was Alexander's turn to smirk. "And if you try to land yourself any job that don't consist solely of singin' an' dancin'-_fully clothed-_I'm draggin' you outta there 'fore you can bat an eyelash."

"If you think I'm gonna let my _little brother_ run my life-"

"Bloody _hell,"_ Beth shrilled, "we'll all go, and if either o' youse says one more word, I swear by God I'll slit both your throats."

She grabbed her book and fled to the other side of the room. Alex and April swallowed, exchanged wide-eyed looks, and nodded in vigorous consent.

* * *

It was a flurry of footsteps down in the lobby that startled Dutchy from the pages of _Buffalo Bill's First Trial. _He had been absorbed in the old dime-store novel since dawn, when the landlord, awakening his roommates with hollered threats and the occasional poke of a broom, had observed Dutchy's palor and rattling coughs and ordered him back to bed.

"'S'just a chill, Kloppman," he had whined, already resigned to the futility of his protests. John Kloppman had taken Dutchy under his wing when the skinny blond boy had first set foot in the Duane Street Newsboys Lodging House at the age of ten. The old man had taught him to read English, count American money, and, most importantly, to get by in a city that a rural German childhood had never prepared him for. Kloppman maintained that fatherly sensibility five years later.

Therefore, Dutchy lay feverish in his bunk well into the afternoon while friends and strangers trooped in and out to count money or use the washroom. When a sudden downpour pelted the windows, a whole herd of boys came squelching up the stairs to seek refuge in the bunkroom. These were youngsters, mostly, between the ages of eight and twelve-a range that encompassed the vast majority of his fellow lodgers. They settled down with leftover newspapers or covert card games, and Dutchy, absorbed by the adventures of an Old West hero, paid them little mind. But when a new pair of feet stomped in with a level of fury fit to drown out the thunderstorm, Dutchy raised his eyes to behold a soaked and scowling Snoddy.

"What happened?" he inquired, fishing his glasses from the nightstand and planting them on his nose to seek some clue to his friend's foul mood.

"Dad-blamed pickpockets," Snoddy growled, striding toward the washroom.

"In this neighborhood?" Snitch demanded, peering down from his bunk.

"S'posta be our territory," Itey chimed in, indignant.

"I'll be sure an' let 'em know!" a sardonic voice called from one of the washroom stalls. Several minutes later, the giant newsboy emerged in a different set of clothes-probably "borrowed" from one of the other boys, judging by their tightness. He sank onto the nearest bottom bunk, dabbing at his unruly brown hair with a towel. Only then did he look at Dutchy with anything resembling concern. "How ya feelin'?"

Dutchy answered with a hacking cough, and Snoddy's frown deepened. Already sick of being an object of pity, Dutchy set his book aside and cleared his throat. "I'll be fine. Freida sent word that she'd come by later." At the leer that spread over Snoddy's face, he barreled on. "So...pickpockets, huh? What's the story?"

"Tell us," Itey coaxed. He and Snitch hung over their bed-rail, eager to hear about any competition. The two of them now made about half their revenue working the pockets and purses of the city's elite and, if the rumors were true, the occasional small-time burglary job. It was odd, Dutchy thought, that they seemed content with their humble lifestyle of papes and crime. Most of the older boys who remained at the lodging house these days, veterans of the strike of July 1899, were desperate for an opportunity to get the hell out.

"They were tag-teaming me," Snoddy explained, shooting his light-fingered roommates a dark look. "Kinda like youse two. Or maybe the girl was just there for back-up in case somethin' went wrong."

"A _girl?" _Itey wiggled his eyebrows. Dutchy stifled a laugh. Small and pointy-faced, with olive skin, wiry near-black curls, and a perpetual expression of sly irony, Itey had always been more of an eccentric mastermind than a ladies' man.

Snitch had also gone saucer-eyed. Buck-toothed and mousy-haired, long legs dangling over the edge of his bunk, the boy stroked a mangy kitten in his lap with one hand and idly inserted the opposite thumb in his mouth. He resembled a scarecrow or a hick fresh off the tractor. _Not that I'm such a stunner myself, _Dutchy mused. _God knows what Freida's thinkin'. _But theirs was a special case. He and Freida had known each other since they were kids in the old country.

"-and then she ran off! Didn't even look back! Took all me money and ruined a whole stack o' papes!" Dutchy tuned in just in time to catch the end of Snoddy's story and the maniacal giggles of his audience.

"Better not let Janet hear about that," Snitch gasped, wiping tears from his eyes. The patchwork kitten bristled and leapt down from the bunk, perhaps believing herself to be the object of derision.

"Better get back out there soon as the rain clears up," Itey added with relish, "or you won't be makin' rent tonight."

Snoddy threw his towel at them. "Do youse two ever-"

There were footsteps on the stairs then, and the door opened to admit two more sopping-wet boys, one tall and black, wearing denim overalls and a top hat, the other stocky and brown-haired, their animated chatter overlapping.

"-lookin' really good, ain't she, and it should be any day now-"

"-says he's got a friend who can get me into show business-"

Dutchy lapsed into a coughing fit, and the newcomers fell silent, regarding him with alarm. Annoyed, he managed to curb the attack and plaster a carefree smile on his face. "Heya, Snaps, Pie."

"Dutchy's on his deathbed and Snoddy just got robbed," Itey announced, still gleeful.

"We're all brimmin' with springtime cheer," Snoddy summarized drily.

"Where've youse two been?" Snitch added, oblivious, as always, to the mood of every other person in the room.

"Jake's place," Pie Eater answered with a grin, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Abby's got the whole motherly glow, y'know? Doctor says the baby'll be comin' any day." He paused for breath. "It could've happened while we were _there. _Can you imagine that? Jake's first kid bein' born right in front of us? What would we've done?"

"Cried," Snoddy said.

Snaps leaned against Dutchy's bunk and shook his head. "Four little brothers an' sisters here, my friend. All you need is hot water and blankets an' it's a cinch."

"Maybe Jake should just call _you _when Abigail's time comes," Snoddy grumbled.

Dutchy sighed; the usual banter war was giving him a headache. He took a sip from the glass of water balanced on his bedpost and glanced at Snaps. "What's this about Jake gettin' you into show business?" One of the first boys to move out after the strike, Jake Burns was a teamster with a pregnant wife, an apartment on Pearl Street, and no theater connections that Dutchy was aware of.

"Hmm?" Snaps blinked. "Oh...he knows a few people, supposedly. Not Broadway, nothin' fancy, just vaudeville folks, friends of his mama's-you know she was a singer over at Lyric Hall?" He shrugged. "Not gettin' my hopes up, but if he can get me an audition-"

"Anything to get the hell outta here," a new voice agreed.

All of them jumped except Itey, who turned, languid as ever, and nodded to the boy who had come in and joined them in perfect silence. "Heya, Bumlets."

_Here, _thought Dutchy, _is our ladies' man. _It wasn't just the shiny black hair, warm brown eyes, and graceful movements. Bumlets' whole attitude used to attract girls on a regular basis-open and friendly, brimming with natural charm. _Used to. _Dutchy tried to ignore the wary knot in the pit of his stomach, though it wasn't the first time he'd felt it. Bumlets had changed over the past few months, perhaps more than any of them. Subtle changes, hard to describe, but he found himself squirming under the boy's intense gaze.

"How ya feelin', Dutch?"

"Like soakin' the next person who asks me that," Dutchy muttered, and Bumlets laughed.

"You want anything for that fever, let me know. Like Jake, I've got...connections." He sat down beside Snoddy, a mysterious smirk spreading over his face.

Dutchy shivered and rolled over to face the wall, choking down another round of coughs. "Thanks, but I'll be fine. Honest."

An awkward silence fell over the group, a rare occurrence in a house full of boisterous young men. Surrounded by the shouts and laughter of their younger roommates, the subdued nature of their own gathering grew all the more pronounced. Dutchy flipped over again to find Bumlets' eyes moving from one boy to the next, taking everything in, cool and thoughtful.

"We're really outnumbered now, ain't we?" Bumlets observed at last. "Seems like we got more o' the little ones movin' in every day, and more o' the men packin' their bags. Jake made it out, Specs, Swifty...hell, even Slider, one way or another."

The boys traded uneasy glances. The little blond newsboy had vanished right after the strike without a word to any of them. It wasn't the kind of thing they liked to discuss.

"Well," Snaps pointed out, "disregardin' Slider, you're only allowed to stay till you turn eighteen. Not surprisin' that we're comin' up on a bit of a panic, is it? All the older fellas scrabblin' to get out before someone notices they're too old to be takin' up these bunks?" He exchanged a sly, nervous glance with Pie Eater, and Dutchy snorted. The two of them had certainly passed their eighteenth birthdays by a year or two, and everyone in the lodging house knew it. Hell, Kloppman probably knew it, and you had to wonder just how long the old man would play along with their little charade.

Bumlets seemed to sense the discomfort he'd caused. A moment later, a carefree smile appeared that reminded Dutchy of the old Bumlets. "Hey, Snaps, if you're lookin' for theater connections, why not talk to Medda? Tonight'll be a prime opportunity."

At this, none of them could hold back a grin.

"Cowboy's big night," Snaps crowed. "Y'think he'll go through with it?"

"Darn well better," Snitch said, "or he'll have to explain himself to a few dozen fellas."

"Davey'd have his hide," Itey cackled, then sobered for once. "But he'll go through with it. Our fearless leader's a follow-through kinda man."

"Any o' youse invited to the big supper?" Snoddy demanded.

They all shook their heads.

"Nah," Pie Eater said, "that's only for Cowboy's nearest an' dearest. But we'll hear all about it at the party tomorrow."

"Not me." Snoddy sighed. "I'll be workin' late at the fact'ry these next few nights. Youse'll have to tell me all about Sarah's reaction. Speakin' o' meals, though..." He glanced at the clock. "Lunch, anyone?"

Four of the other boys let out cries of ascent, scrambling for hats and stashes of coins. Dutchy's face drooped. Snoddy caught his eye and smirked good-naturedly. "Corned-beef sandwich and a sarsaparilla, Dutch?"

Dutchy flashed him a weak, grateful smile.

* * *

"Irvin' Hall," Alex read aloud from the sign above the door. His eyes rose to a portrait of an attractive woman with long red hair wearing a gaudy purple dress and lounging in a seductive pose. "Medda, the Swedish Meadowlark, at this theater only." He turned decisively to April. "F'get it."

"No one asked you to come along, Scamp."

"Well? We goin' in or what?" There was no mistaking that sharp, sardonic voice. Elizabeth stood in front of the building with her arms crossed, watching the steady stream of patrons with a pained revulsion that bordered on hatred.

Alex sighed. "C'mon, Lizzy, you've always loved theater."

_"Real _theater, Alex. Not shameless exploitin' of every hooker with a scrap o' talent," she snapped, then eyed April briefly, conveying a sort of nonverbal 'No offense.'

"None taken," said April with a smirk, easily reading the Elizabethan facial language from years of practice. "Quit stallin', Alex. Don'cha want decent seats?"

Irving Hall's entranceway was roomy, swarming with men and women from their teens on up who chatted among themselves or looked for friends while they waited for the show to begin. A door leading into the theater itself was guarded by a squat little man dressed as a clown. Grinning wolfishly, he tempted the few children in the crowd with a bag of sweets.

"You're new around here, huh?"

Alex and April both started, pivoting toward the voice that had addressed them loudly over the din. Beth, who had already slouched against the wall, simply shifted her black eyes lazily to face the young man who had spoken. He was handsome, April observed at once, around nineteen or twenty. His clothing suggested a typical working-class boy, except for two peculiar touches: a bright red necktie and a large black cowboy hat resting on his greasy golden-brown hair. He smiled at them from beneath its brim.

"'S'just that I know all the regulars here at Medda's, and I'd remember seein' youse two before. 'Sides, youse both seem kinda stunned. The place ain't always this busy, but with the rain..."

"Yeah, we're new to Manhattan," Alex confirmed, finding his voice and offering a friendly grin. "Well, sorta. We've been here before...been all over the city...but we're Brooklyn, originally."

"I can tell," the boy replied, his eyes lighting up with recognition at the accent.

"I'm April Kaligaris," April cut in quickly, stepping forward with a charming smile and fluttering eyelashes. "This is my little brother, Alexander, better known as Scamp, and that's..." Her eyes flicked doubtfully to Beth's stony glare as she considered disowning her, but settled for an apologetic shrug. "That's Elizabeth Rowlands."

"Jack Kelly," the stranger announced, sweeping off his hat and bowing gallantly. "Cowboy to some, but you might already know that. I hear I'm still mentioned now'n then-"

"Leader o' the Newsboys Strike back in July. You shut down the whole city, right?" April beamed, and Jack glowed with ill-concealed pride.

"That's right."

Alex coughed politely. "Well, it's been great meetin' you, Jack, but we were just goin'...show's prob'ly startin' soon..." He grabbed April's arm, but she twisted out of his grasp, turning her bright eyes on Jack again.

"Actually, I'm here lookin' for work. Useta do a bit o' dancin' an' singin' back in Brooklyn-"

"Then you're in luck!" Jack grinned. "I just happen to be personally acquainted with the owner o' this joint, Miss Medda Larkson. C'mon back, I'll introduce you."

"Really? You'd do that for me?" April sidled a step closer to Jack, once again allowing her skirt to rise a fraction of an inch. But Jack must have encountered such maneuvers before; his composure was ruffled for a split second before his easy grin reappeared.

"Be glad to, milady. Right this way." He took her arm. Alex stiffened, but there was nothing for it. April was clearly dead-set on this job idea, and he would have to go along and make it clear that her options were limited. He considered Beth uncertainly.

"Whatcha lookin' at?" she snapped, and Alex bit his lip; nothing would convince her to tag along.

"Just-"

"No one's gonna be dead when you get back."

Nearly as disturbed by her grim little smirk as she had intended him to be, Alex nodded, shot April a lightning-quick death glare, and followed her new friend past the candy-peddling clown and into the heart of Irving Hall.

* * *

_This place is bloody huge!_

Upon stepping inside the theater, this was the observation that flashed through April's mind, complete with a touch of British profanity picked up from Beth. Row upon row of seats faced a vast stage, which was currently hidden behind a rippling red curtain. The rows were already packed with people, most of whom seemed to be well-acquainted with their guide. Teasing calls of, "Hey there, Kelly, where ya been?" and "Ain't seen you in a while, Cowboy! Gettin' too good for us?" followed them through the aisles, and Jack responded jovially to each one even as he ushered April and Alex around to the side of the stage. There they climbed a few steps to a door, which Jack flung open and bowed them through, closing it against the uproar.

"Hey! Vat's going on? No one should be back here!" a female voice called irritably. April searched for its source, but her eyes were still adjusting to the dim light. Finally, she realized that they were surrounded by the overflowing boxes of props and costumes that one would expect to find backstage. And several feet in front of them, lit by a flickering oil lamp set on a dusty wooden trunk, loomed a screen of purple silk.

Jack didn't seem alarmed; he chuckled and replied, "But, Medda, I'm your biggest fan!"

_Gracious, _April thought as the busty redheaded woman from the sign swept from behind the screen, let out a squeal of surprise, and threw her arms around Cowboy. _What exactly is his relationship with this woman? _Nothing would surprise her, of course, but this Medda character was more than twice his age.

"Medda," Jack was saying, finally pulling away from her after a quick peck on the cheek, "I brought someone to meetcha." April sparkled as he put his hand on her shoulder and gently drew her forward. "This here's Miss April Kaligaris-and this is her brother, Scamp," he added as an afterthought, gesturing at the wary figure by her side. "April's interested in workin' for you."

Immediately, the woman's open, friendly smile crumpled into a slight frown; the light in which she saw this new acquaintance had just changed drastically. Her gaze swept over the girl, and April watched calmly as Medda took in the sweeping curves of her body, the cut of her dress. The vaudeville star lingered on the gentle waves of dark brown hair that fell to April's lower back, admiring its rich red tones. April could feel the emotions behind those eyes, a combination of an older woman's envy for her physical advantages and the satisfaction of a businesswoman who sought such traits in her employees.

The appraisal was cut short when Alex cleared his throat, and Medda looked up to face a pair of uncharacteristically cold brown eyes, advising her in no uncertain terms to stop eyeing his sister as if considering a purchase.

"Well, April," Medda said with forced warmth, and April noticed that every trace of the exaggerated Swedish accent had vanished, "I think you'd make a splendid addition to Irving Hall. Listen, I'm holding auditions for a new show tomorrow night, starting at seven-o'-clock sharp. Can I hope to see you then?"

April smiled and curtseyed, proper as you please. "Thank you, ma'am. I'll be-"

_"We'll _be here," Alex interrupted.

April gaped at her brother in silent, shocked fury. Medda opened her mouth as if to protest, took another look at Alexander's face, and closed it. Jack shifted uncomfortably, sensing the tension around him.

"Well, I've got some friends to meet. Great seein' you, Medda."

"Yeah," April added sweetly, "and thanks for bringin' us back here, Jack."

But Cowboy continued to resist her charms. Answering her with only a distant nod, he kissed the Meadowlark's hand, and the two siblings followed him out of the dressing room.

As Jack and Alex descended the steps, April was the last to emerge. Blinking against the harsh flood of light, she glanced over her shoulder. The Swedish Meadowlark had stepped behind the screen again. In the pool of light splashed onto the purple silk by the nearby lamp, April could see Medda's shadow turning this way and that, smoothing her dress and tugging at her curls, like a schoolgirl in front of a mirror. For a moment, the breeze from the door fanned the candle flame, and April watched the silhouette waver and undulate. Then she closed the door and returned to the chaos of the theater.

* * *

David Jacobs entered Irving Hall in high spirits, his sister and brother close behind. He always thrilled at the chance to see the beautiful Meadowlark grace the stage, and he was also looking forward to spending time with Jack. He had seen less and less of his closest friend over the past few months. First, David and his younger brother, Les, had become so adept at peddling papers that they had ceased to need a partner. Then their father's injured arm had healed, allowing him to return to his factory job, and David had been forced to uphold his promise to go back to school. Since then, he had sold only the evening edition of the _New York World,_ and it had been difficult to find time for the other newsies in his life.

Les quickly disappeared into the throng. Ten years old, he was coming up on the rollercoaster ride called adolescence, a period of increasing awareness and independence. These days, he was always eager to be on his own, exploring the changing world around him. Sarah Jacobs looked after Les, shaking her head, then offered David a parting wave before taking off as well. David smiled to himself, knowing exactly who she would seek.

Generous enough to let his sister and her beau begin the evening in privacy, he made a beeline for the ticket booth on the other side of the front hall. But he had only gone a few feet before crashing painfully into a scrawny little creature who nearly toppled over.

"Excuse me! I'm so sorry! Are you all right?" He grabbed the small girl's wrist, steadying her. To his alarm, she yanked her hand back with an indignant cry, almost a shriek, as if his fingers had burned her. He was considerably more shocked when she let out a string of expletives that caused several bystanders to gasp in horror. Finally, she cowered against the wall, perhaps believing David to be the first in a stampede.

"I-I'm very sorry, miss-" She let out a harsh, startled little laugh at that, as if no one had ever called her 'miss' before in her life. David, still blushing from her colorful vocabulary, tried to ignore this and finish his apology with as much dignity as possible. "I, I didn't see you there, I wasn't looking, I-"

"Do I really look like I _care_ 'bout your excuses?" the girl snapped. "Go buy your damn tickets."

By now, David heartily wished to do just that, but Esther Jacobs had raised her sons to be gentlemen.

"I..." He flattened himself against the wall, as it seemed the only plausible way to speak to her without people passing between them every moment. "I can't really apologize until I know your name. I'm David Jacobs." He extended his hand. She stared at it in frank astonishment.

"You're _serious,_ ain'cha?"

Her tone was coldly mocking, but David had come this far and supposed he might as well see it through. He gulped and nodded. "Yes, I am."

Another dry laugh escaped her lips. Still ignoring his hand, she tilted her head back so that her black eyes met his earnest blue ones. "I'm Lady Macbeth," she informed him.

David felt his jaw drop. He had meant to take leave of her and flee after learning her name, but he couldn't resist investigating this. "So...have you ever plotted the death of a king?" he blurted out.

Her eyes snapped. That was the only way David could describe the rapid blink that momentarily transformed her blazing, irritated gaze into something quite different...something softer, animated with interest, almost _human._ But then she blinked again, and the old scorn was back, like a mask that she could slip on and off.

"Somethin' like that," she muttered warily.

David relaxed; he had found a topic that appealed to her, an interest they had in common. "You know, my class studied _Macbeth_ not long ago, and my teacher had an interesting theory about-"

"Look, kid," the self-styled Lady Macbeth interrupted sharply, "I ain't some kinda scholar, got it? I read books, like half the world. It don't make us soulmates or nothin'. So go buy your damn tickets and leave me alone."

Stung, David gave a quick bow and hurried off to the ticket booth. Still, he couldn't help reflecting on her words. _Maybe half the world reads books...but do half the poor girls of New York read Shakespeare?_

He was intrigued by this hostile scrap of a would-be murderess, and he determined, one way or another, to find out who she really was.

* * *

_"Don't sing love songs, you'll wake my mother  
She's sleeping here right by my side  
And in her right hand, a silver dagger  
She says that I can't be your bride..."_

"Bit grim for vaudeville, isn't it?" Sarah murmured, her breath tickling the ear of the boy who sat beside her. Jack's eyes barely flickered from the stage, but he smiled fondly and gave her hand, subtly clasped in his, a squeeze.

"I mean," she continued softly, "this whole idea of marriage as something sinister, dangerous..."

"Mmm," Cowboy replied, slightly inclining his head toward her shoulder as his gaze remained arrested by Medda's performance. Sarah gently pushed him away, glancing around to make sure no one had noticed this lapse in propriety.

"Jack, what would my parents think if they knew you brought me here?"

He finally turned to her, his face etched with confusion and irritation that he clearly struggled to reign in with a pretense of patience. "Sarah, your parents love me. What's this all about, anyway? 'Member all those crazy summer nights you were clappin' and cheerin' at every show, lettin' me-" He lowered his voice conscientiously. "-steal kisses when no one was lookin', laughin' all the way home at my excuses for where we'd been-?"

"Shhh!" Several other audience members shot the couple dirty looks before returning their attention to the belle of Irving Hall.

_"All men are false, says my mother  
They'll tell you wicked, lovin' lies  
The very next evening, they'll court another,  
Leave you alone to pine and sigh..."_

"On those crazy summer nights," Sarah explained, her lips nearly brushing her beau's ear to avoid further embarrassment, "things were different."

* * *

Several rows behind them, Les Jacobs ogled the stage as if it were his first vaudeville show. In fact, he had been a mere nine and a half years old on that occasion, his appreciation largely reserved for the sweets provided by Toby the clown. Now, a licorice whip hung limply from his hand as he watched Medda Larkson tilt her head back, red hair swinging free and shining in the spotlight, and belt out her song.

_"My daddy is a handsome devil  
He's got a chain five miles long  
And on every link a heart does dangle  
Of another maid he's loved and wronged..."_

Without warning, the young boy's reverie was rudely interrupted by a sound smack on the shoulder. He spun toward his brother.

"Hey! What was that for?"

"Nothing," David snapped, his face red. "Just...eat your candy, all right?"

Les blinked, glancing suspiciously from the licorice whip to David. "You always said sweets are bad for me."

"Well," David answered carefully, "some things are worse."

Les frowned, squirming around to face the stage again. "You ain't makin' any sense."

"Don't talk like that, Les. And don't..._watch _like that! I shouldn't have let you come here. It's not respectable."

"Then why do _you _come?" Les retorted.

"I..." Noticing the looks they were drawing, David sighed and leaned over to whisper to the younger boy. "We'll talk about it later, all right?"

"Later we'll be with Cowboy! D'you think he'll show me how to swing a lasso? He promised last time."

Visibly relieved, David nodded. "I bet he will."

While Les finally nibbled on the licorice, blackening his lips, David stole a glance at the "cowboy" in question. His brow creased at the sight that greeted him. Sarah sat rigid in her chair, hands folded in her lap, eyes fastened demurely to the floor. Beside her, arms crossed over his chest, Jack tore his eyes from the stage every few seconds to cut them inscrutably at his companion.

"Why are they sitting all the way over there?" Les demanded abruptly, following his brother's gaze.

"They just...they need some time to themselves now and then-"

"Are they gonna get married? Mama told Papa that Jack's been courting Sarah for more'n six months and he's starting to compromise her-"

_"Les!"_ Half a dozen heads snapped in their direction. David closed his eyes and prayed that the floor would open beneath him.

"How come _you're _not courting anyone?" Les rattled on, immune to public opinion.

"_Go court another tender maiden,  
And hope that she will be your wife,  
For I've been warned, and I've decided  
To sleep alone all of my life..."_

* * *

"Rubbish," Beth deadpanned amidst the applause and catcalls following Medda's solo.

"Quite," April agreed through an exaggerated yawn that ended in a catty, lighthearted chuckle. "She really oughta stay behind the scenes and let the next generation draw the crowds."

"Be sure to bring that up in your job interview tomorrow," Alex muttered, raising his head from a doze on the arm of his seat. He had already developed a loathing for this place, and Medda was not the type of woman to attract his interest through music or any other medium. "Let's get outta here."

"Absolutely!" April bounced to her feet, eyes shining, arms akimbo, bosoms threatening to burst out of her dress. To the stream of aghast audience members pouring down the aisle, she offered a saucy laugh before bounding after them, singsonging gaily over her shoulder, "Let's get _out!"_

"That girl," said Alex hopelessly to his remaining companion, "is gonna get herself arrested one day."

The girl in question bounded through the entranceway and out into the damp spring evening with the full intoxication of night upon her. The storm had passed, leaving only the fresh, faintly sweet after-scent of rain. Something got into April's blood when darkness fell that set her on fire with the longing to dance and sing and entwine herself in someone's arms, regardless of shoddy lodgings or disgruntled brothers. Impulsively, she took a running leap onto a bench just outside the theater.

Noticing the attention she was receiving from the exodus of patrons, she winked and raised her face to the cloudy sky, a cool breeze billowing out her crimson gown. From this startling Greek monolith issued a voice huskier and surprisingly richer than the Meadowlark's.

_"All men are false, says my mother  
They'll tell you wicked, lovin' lies..."_

"Warmin' up for your audition already?"

Deftly concealing her surprise, April held the note for another beat before lowering her eyes to meet Jack Kelly's. He was smiling...and resting his fingers on the arm of a pretty brunette in a modest floral-print dress, who-in the moment before she caught April's gaze and wiped her face blank-regarded her as if her past line of employment were advertised on her forehead.

The awkward pause was broken by the abrupt appearance of a little boy with a licorice moustache and a length of rope in his hands, closely pursued by a young man with a head of brown curls, who called angrily after him. "Les! I told you they needed a moment-" The older boy ground to a halt, widened his eyes on the vivid image of April perched on the bench, her skirt now swirling around her knees, coughed, and concluded weakly, "-alone."

"I don't care!" the younger boy whined obliviously, tugging on Jack's free hand. "C'mon, Cowboy, you said you'd teach me! And Medda gave me a rope, and it's almost time to go to Tibby's, and Sarah ain't that interestin' anyhow!"

With superior command, Jack recovered himself. "Remind me not to let your brothers tag along next time," he joked to the girl named Sarah, who smiled faintly in reply; then he held up a delaying finger to the youngster and offered April his hand. Laughing, she accepted and allowed him to help her to the ground.

"Everyone," he announced, facing his little party, "Miss April Kaligaris. She's gonna be performin' here at Medda's soon. April, this is my...Miss Sarah Jacobs, and her brothers, David and Les. Les is the kid who's had entirely too much sugar."

"Davey _told _me to eat the licorice!" Les asserted hotly, "and I ain't a kid no more-"

_"'I'm not a child anymore,'" _David corrected automatically, "and yes, you are. Pleased to meet you," he added, smiling shyly at April and shaking her hand, though she caught his eyes flicking almost imperceptibly over her dress; reigned in tightly, disapproval still burned.

"Likewise," April answered smoothly, "and you, Miss Jacobs." With a curtsey to the frosty-faced Sarah, who responded in kind, she turned to the little boy and added, "Don't worry, Les-I happen to have plenty of energy myself, even without sugar, and it's never done me a lick o' harm, far as I know."

"Is April comin' to Tibby's with us?" Les demanded, offering her a grin that let her know his friendship was not so hard-won as his siblings'. "I'm starving."

"Tibby's, huh?" April's eyes lit up. "I don't remember hearin' that name last time me an' Alex passed through here. How's their whiskey?"

Jack grinned, apparently amused. "Uh, Dave, why don't you explain about Tibby's? I'm gonna give Les here a cowboy lesson." He pulled the little boy aside and took the rope from him, beginning a soft, earnest monologue, at which Les immediately calmed down and devoted his full attention.

David glanced enigmatically at his sister, who retained her stony silence, before turning to April again. "Tibby's isn't a tavern; it's a restaurant. We planned the Newsies Rally there, so it's sort of...historic. We're all meeting some of the other newsboys for a late supper. You're, uh...welcome to...come along..." Under Sarah's blistering gaze, he trailed off.

April couldn't help melting a little at his obvious discomfort. But the night was young and full of smoky vapors, rendered more romantic to her senses than factory fumes had any right to be, and when every bar in the city seemed to be calling to her, wouldn't some tame restaurant be the more virtuous choice? "Thank you," she purred. "I'd be honored."

Just as Jack went careening down the street with an unearthly yell, swinging a makeshift lasso over his head for the benefit of an adoring Les, a slender figure emerged from the theater, looked around, and with a short, exasperated sigh, hurried over to the group.

"Alex!" April exclaimed. "_There_ you are! What'd you do, go chasin' after Medda's autograph? Come meet-"

"April!" His voice was hard and urgent. Jack returned to join his friends in staring at the agitated boy who had entered their midst. Ignoring them, Alex reached for April's arm, but she stepped back, glaring.

"Not _now."_

"April-"

"Alex, this can _wait!" _she protested, angrily indicating the near-strangers surrounding her.

"It can't. It's _Beth."_

April's expression changed at once. Murmuring a perfunctory, "Excuse me," she hurried after her brother until they were out of earshot. "What happened?" she asked briskly.

"She's just sittin' there, starin' at the stage and ignorin' every word I say. Not that _that's _anything new, but it's like she don't even hear me. I think maybe she's..." He trailed off, and April's mind raced.

"All right...I'll go in."

"D'you think that's-"

_"I'll take care of it."_

Succumbing for once to his slightly greener years, Alex nodded. Mustering a smile, April turned to wave gaily at the newsboys and Sarah. "I'll be right back! Don't go anywhere!" she called, and dashed back into Irving Hall.

* * *

Elizabeth was alone. Oh, Medda herself was around somewhere, probably backstage, along with a host of other performers. A maid swept one of the balconies, her broom swishing softly across the polished floor. But no one else sat riveted to a chair in the darkened, empty theater, visual vignettes running through her mind like the new-fangled 'flickers' they showed in up-scale theaters.

In these ghostly scenes, the lights rose around her, and with them, a dull roar of sound. An elbow rested on her shoulder; a voice whispered in her ear. In the present, in Manhattan, Beth closed her eyes and clenched her fists, breathing deeply, seeking a sense of stability-she didn't know how long.

When she opened her eyes, April stood in front of her. Beth started, mistaking her for another apparition, until the tacky posters plastering the walls reminded her that she had never been here before, that no ghost attended this place but her.

"Beth?" April's head was tilted slightly. Her grave visage, the absence of unbridled zest, could only indicate that she or someone she cared for was caving in. Elizabeth was well aware of this and said nothing. "What is it, kid?"

"This place reminds me o' the Montauk," Beth finally answered, only because she knew it would hurt April.

Sure enough, the older girl shuddered, and she took a step back, her eyes darting to the stage and back to her friend. "Oh," she whispered.

Satisfied, Elizabeth smirked. "You're worse'n me."

"I'm not-"

"You can't even speak of it!"

_"You _don't-"

"I don't speak of _anything! _I'm not like _you, _April, goin' on like always with the gossip and the drinks and the parties and the men, laughin' all the time like you don't even hafta _try _to forget-"

"Because of _this!" _April's voice was shrill; she winced, turned away like a frightened child who thought she could hide from the monsters by covering her eyes. _"I can't do this."_

They both breathed heavily into the silence until the slowing of the broom's rhythm reminded them that they were not completely alone. Facing Elizabeth again, April produced a chilling mockery of her usual warm smile. "I met some new friends."

"'Course you did," Beth spat.

"We're goin' out to supper."

"'Course you are."

"I'm not askin' you to come," April concluded, her voice still light and sweet. "Do whatever you want. You always do anyway. Sit here in the dark. Alone."

She had taken three strides toward the door when an acid retort floated out of the darkness. "Why don'cha try flirtin' with the young kid? Fresh thing like that, just bloomin' into manhood, no defense against your charms-"

April flew at the younger girl, only to find Elizabeth on her feet, chin raised calmly, dark beetle eyes unreadable, her tiny form practically melding with the shadows. "Go ahead," she whispered, hands behind her back, waiting.

April stared at her for a long moment, then turned and briskly left the theater, her echoing footsteps brought to a crescendo by the slamming door.

* * *

"Just an ordinary penny, see?" Alex brandished the tarnished scrap of copper in the center of his palm for the inspection of Jack Kelly and the Jacobs trio, who leaned in collectively, spellbound. Suppressing a grin that tugged at the corners of his mouth, he managed to maintain the solemn expression that this sort of thing demanded. "Are youse watchin' closely?"

One by one, he closed his fingers over the penny, and then, with a flourish, opened his fist to reveal an empty hand. Les gasped, and Sarah, who seemed to have loosened up considerably since April's departure, offered an impulsive round of applause. Even Cowboy looked impressed, but David only smiled quietly. Alex noticed this with cheerful resignation. There was a sharp eye in every crowd; in his experience, it was usually Elizabeth.

At this thought, he glanced anxiously at the theater. There hadn't been any screams; that was probably a good sign. Maybe Beth and April were having a quiet heart-to-heart. And maybe the moon was made of cheese.

"Scamp! Hey, Scamp! Show us another!" Les demanded, pulling on his sleeve.

Jack chuckled, pulling the younger boy away, and addressed Alexander. "So your pop taught you that, huh? Where were your folks from?"

"Thessaly." Alex lounged against the bench where they had converged to pass the minutes. "North of Athens, on the Ionian Sea...not that I've ever been to Greece."

"What about April? Was she born there?" Jack inquired. Sarah stiffened.

"Naw-Brooklyn, like me. And her mother was Irish...died when she was born. April's my half-sister, really," he explained at their puzzled looks, and eyed a cigar stub on the ground. "Dad remarried less than a year later."

No one needed to point out the scandal of that fact or the obvious questions it raised. It was Jack who glossed over it and picked up the conversation. "So they're gone now-both your parents?"

"Yes," Alex confirmed philosophically. "Yours?"

A shadow of something like bitterness passed over Cowboy's face. "They're out west, lookin' for a place to live."

"Jack!" David scolded, and his friend's face cleared.

"Sorry, Scamp, that's an old joke. My mam's been dead for ten years, and my pop's in jail-prob'ly never seein' the light o' day again."

Sarah put a hand on Jack's shoulder, and he covered it with both of his own, expressing a combination of tenderness and weariness in the simple gesture. Miss Jacobs had appeared prim and jealous, Alex mused, an odd contrast to the rough and easygoing Cowboy, but there was a quiet connection between them that was undeniable. The thought that his sister might have any effect on that connection was too much for him to process right now.

"That's all hist'ry, though," Jack continued a moment later, jovial as ever. "Bein' a newsie suits me best anyhow, an' Dave's folks've been real good to me-they're like my fam'ly now."

"Speaking of which, they'll be expecting us soon," Sarah fretted, glancing at the darkening sky. "Perhaps we should go to Tibby's another night-"

"No!" Jack exclaimed, drawing stares from the whole group. He coughed and flashed Sarah a charming smile. "I mean...we did promise the boys..."

Blinking, Sarah turned to Alex. "Your sister's been gone a while. You said she went to fetch your friend?"

"Oh, they prob'ly got sidetracked talkin' to Miss Larkson or somethin'," Alex fibbed breezily, stealing another look at the theater and wondering whether he hadn't better go in after them. To distract himself from his worries, he turned to grin at the impatiently squirming Les. "Hey, kid, whatcha got that penny in your ear for?"

"I haven't-" Les yelped in surprised delight when Alex produced the coin from thin air. This sent the whole group into a volley of laughter.

Their merriment was severed abruptly when the door of Irving Hall burst open, discharged a livid April, and slammed hard enough to shake the surrounding cobblestones.

Alex straightened up, his heart in his throat. "Where's Beth?"

"It's all right," April announced, hurrying to join the group. She was smiling now, the color rapidly returning to her cheeks. The haunting stamp of shock and anger had vanished from her face so quickly that only Alex was certain it had been there at all. "Beth's fine, but she's gonna head home. She's exhausted, poor kid. We're still goin' to supper, right?"

"Of course!" Jack sprang up, sounding relieved and suddenly energized. He started down the street at a brisk pace, the Jacobs family following closely like a parade of ducklings. "C'mon, youse two, we's already late!" he hollered over his shoulder, for Alex had remained frozen beside the bench, holding April in place with a penetrating gaze.

"Alex-" Her voice actually cracked in her desperate attempt at a light tone. "She's _fine, _all right? Didja really expect her to come to supper?"

"I expected her to come out here herself and tell me what's wrong," he answered quietly.

April snorted. "Oh, yeah, 'cause Beth's known for that. Always the first to open up and discuss her feelings, have a good cry in someone's arms. Then she asks for a hug and says a few Hail Marys-"

"I'm gonna talk to her." Alex started for the theater, but April yanked him back, turning him to face her.

_"She don't wanna talk._"

"So you're just gonna leave her there? Flounce off with your new friends to some restaurant we can't even afford-"

"Yes!"April snapped, staring him down. "'Cause I _want _to. It's a beautiful night, and I wanna enjoy it. There's nothin' you can do for her, Alex. You can't save her, you can't look after her all the time. She's goin' through hell, all right? We all are. Ada was my dearest friend, for God's sake." Her brother flinched, but April ignored the pang of remorse. "She was my friend, Beth's sister, and you...you think I don't know how you felt about her? But we can't stop _livin'_, Alex, just 'cause...just 'cause Ada did."

Alex looked at the ground, his thin shoulders rigid, a nearby street-lamp glancing off his silky shoe-polish hair, which was getting a bit long, April noticed. It was a trick he'd always had, to hold himself unnaturally still while she squirmed and scuffed her feet and felt increasingly uncomfortable. The silence almost swallowed them whole.

Then April drew on her considerable store of moxie and motioned earnestly at the distant forms of Jack and his friends, who had stopped at the corner to look back impatiently. "I wanna go to this Tibby's place, meet the other newsies, have some fun. Beth wants to sit in the dark. It's no different from Brooklyn, Alex. So what'll it be?"

Alexander raised his eyes, prickling inside and out with a familiar brand of stress. Who could get into more trouble-Beth alone in a dark theater or April in a room full of boys?

It was a tough call until his empty stomach rumbled, and he remembered the numerous switchblades concealed in the folds of Elizabeth's clothing. "Tibby's, huh?" he muttered, and April beamed, grabbed his arm, and raced to catch up with the others.

The streets of Manhattan were dark and cool, paved with cobblestones that glistened wetly in the shadow-lanced beams of street-lamps. Numerous peddlers' carts and the occasional carriage clattered homeward, water spraying from the puddles they rolled through, a few intrepid merchants still shouting their wares. A handful of desperate newsboys haunted their personal street corners, beseeching passersby to relieve them of the latest edition, though most of these urchins were chased off by women whose bare limbs, cheap perfume, and heavy rouge advertised a different sort of work ethic.

Tavern doors were propped open with blocks of wood, enticingly spilling light, music, cacophonies of jolly voices, and the powerful smell of liquor out among the city's weary laborers. Stray cats, rail-thin and bristling, darted this way and that, yellow eyes gleaming, attending to their own affairs. In the mouths of alleys lurked the sinister silhouettes of those for whom business hours had only just begun. Savvy pedestrians guarded their pockets and watched their backs. Alex skimmed a few pockets himself, tucking the loot away surreptitiously, and watched his companions.

Remarkably, every shade of tension from the past few hours seemed to have fled their minds. Jack walked arm in arm with his lady friend, gazing into her face with a light-up smile and exchanging sweet nothings like any romantic young couple, until Sarah's posture finally relaxed even in April's proximity.

The temptress herself latched onto David, wearing down his initial reservations with a series of rambling stories about the quirks of various neighbors back in Brooklyn. "...and he was so soused he didn't realize he was talkin' to his own mother..."

"It sounds like something out of _Oedipus Rex!"_

Les, bored with his elders, raced ahead of the group, swinging Jack's lasso and whooping like a madman. Plodding along at the back of the herd, his own silence unnoticed, Alex found his mind wandering back to the theater, wondering if he had made the right decision...and then, for just a moment, what _he _would have chosen to do with the night, had the choice been his alone.

"...when Antigone goes against Creon..."

Dave apparently assumed that, being half Greek, April would have a thorough background in Greek tragedy. She seemed disinclined to relieve him of that notion. Suddenly, with a ghost of a smile, Alex stepped forward to join the loop. "Well, it's Ismene who's really to blame, ain't it? She stands idly by 'cause she's too scared to be loyal to her sister and brother."

David tripped over a crack in the sidewalk and turned to him eagerly. "You've read _Antigone?"_

"Our friend," Alex explained, "the one we left back at Irvin' Hall..." He glanced darkly at April. "She practically lives in books. Picked it up from her dad-he was from England and had some schoolin' there, I guess-and I picked it up from her."

David didn't look away from him as they rounded a corner. His face had assumed a thoughtful cast. "Your friend...she reads the classics? And she was at Medda's tonight?"

Alex nodded in reluctant confirmation. Elizabeth was the last subject he cared to discuss right now. Impulsively, he darted forward, past his sister, his fellow bookworm, and the lovebirds, and swooped the cap right off a startled Les's head. "C'mon, Les, catch me if you can!"

And he flew down the street, shouting and laughing, a gleefully indignant ten-year-old in hot pursuit.

* * *

"I'm sorry about this," Jack murmured as soon as he and Sarah had put sufficient distance between themselves and their companions.

Her arm hooked through his, she regarded him calmly. "About what?"

"Medda's. You could've told me-I mean, I would've stopped takin' you there if I knew you found it, uh, offensive-"

"I don't," she assured him quickly. "I like the shows, Jack. I always have. I was just thinking..." She trailed off and shrugged. "It was nothing."

"You sure?" Massaging her palm gently with his thumb, he glanced over his shoulder. "I'm sorry about them, too. It's just that Les mentioned Tibby's, and then it seemed rude not to invite them-"

"You only just met them!" Sarah laughed at his chastened look and lowered her voice. "Don't be sorry. Scamp's a darling."

"Yeah?" Jack's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Is it them parlor tricks? 'Cause any fool could learn to make a penny-"

"Jack!" Now she was really laughing, her face sinking into his shoulder so that they had to stop for a moment, right under a street-lamp, the pale glow making a halo of her luxurious chestnut hair. Jack found himself looking right into her eyes, and suddenly, they were both serious. Scamp and Les ran straight by them, hollering and carrying on; somewhere behind them, David lectured April on the merits of great literature. Neither of them took any notice.

"You have such beautiful eyes," Jack said softly, reaching out to stroke Sarah's hair away from her face.

"Jack," she whispered, lowering them.

"And beautiful hair...and beautiful skin...and beautiful lips-"

He leaned closer and closer, and Sarah, cheeks flushed, hypnotized by his voice, almost forgot to pull away.

"I love you, Miss Jacobs," he breathed into her ear.

"I love you, too." She looked up uncertainly. "It's just..."

"Don't worry." He took her hand and held her gaze. "Everything's gonna be be all right soon. You'll see."

"What?" Now she stared at him blankly while he carefully maintained an enigmatic mask. Poker had never been his strong suit, but Racetrack's lessons were suddenly paying off.

"You'll see," he repeated, and grinned. "C'mon, we should catch up."

With a start, Sarah looked up to see that the others had all passed them. In the distance, David looked back with what she could only assume to be a teasing grin. Rolling her eyes, she grabbed her beau's hand, flashed him a playful smile, hiked up her skirt, and ran.

By the time they reached the familiar restaurant, Jack felt ready to explode. His palms had gone clammy with sweat, and he knew by a sidelong glance or two that Sarah had noticed. His stomach seemed to have twisted into knots. This was ridiculous. He was the boldest and wildest kid in Manhattan, the boy who had ridden out of the House of Refuge on Teddy Roosevelt's carriage, brought the city to a standstill with sheer nerve and charisma, and never shied from a hostile encounter with the Delancey brothers, whose infamy had only increased over the years. But the step he was about to take reduced this impressive history to a string of children's games.

With a deep breath, he shoved open the door and led the procession into Tibby's.

They were greeted by a wordless roar. Sarah jumped half a foot, dropping Jack's hand in surprise, and heads turned all over the restaurant, faces pinching in annoyance at the outburst from a corner booth. Half a dozen ragged young men had surged to their feet and swept off their hats. Jack couldn't help grinning even as he let out a soft groan. So much for subtlty.

* * *

April stumbled backward at the enthusiastic greeting they received upon entering a shabby but pleasantly homey little restaurant. David laughed, a high, awkward sound that eased her shock, and offered her his arm. Together, they followed Jack and Sarah to the booth, with Alex and Les now bringing up the rear.

"'Bout time, Cowboy! We was beginnin' to think you'd changed yer mind," teased a blond boy with a brown patch over his left eye that couldn't obscure an expression of wild glee. He scanned their little party, eyebrows arching in surprise. "Hey! Strangers!"

Jack seemed to pull himself together with an effort. He had taken Sarah's hand again, and April noticed that he gripped it more tightly as he turned and beckoned her and Alex forward. "Gentlemen, Miss April Kaligaris and her brother, Scamp. We just met 'em at Medda's. April's goin' in for an audition tomorrow."

"Then you're gonna meet Diamond!" an olive-skinned boy announced with a shy smile. April had quickly picked him out as the stunner of the bunch, with brown curls like David's and a chest rippling with muscle through a tight blue shirt. His smile clinched the deal. "You'll know her right away," he continued. "She's Italian, terrific dancer, prettiest one o' the bunch. Tell her hello from me, will ya, miss? I ain't been able to drop by since-"

"-_last Friday," _a short, dark-haired boy finished in a mock-horrified falsetto, clapping his hat over his chest. Then he whacked his handsome friend in the face with it. "And shut up about your love life for once, Mush. This is Jack's special night."

"Excuse me." Sarah's voice, though faint, startled them all into silence. "Would someone please tell me what is going on here?" Her suspicious gaze darted between Jack and the other newsboys. "I thought we were just having supper."

The awkward silence stretched for a few seconds. Then, to April's amazement, the wisecracking newsie continued as if Sarah had never spoken. "Odds was two to one you'd pass out cold 'fore you got here," he said to Jack, straightening his checkered vest and rolling a cigar between his fingers. "The little fellas had faith in you, though." He slung his arms over the shoulders of a pair of boys who weren't much older than Les.

One of them, a black boy dressed in corduroy and a pair of gleaming black shoes, grinned and saluted his leader. "Darn right I did."

The other, whose curls were a lighter brown than Mush's or David's, plucked a smoking cigar from his own mouth and scoffed. "Yer a rotten liar, Race. I figured he wouldn't even make it past Broadway." His voice, deep and boisterous, seemed incongruous with his years. "Crutchy here was the other vote o' confidence."

The boy he indicated had grabbed a single crutch to steady himself when he stood. Tall and slender, he sported yet another nest of brown curls and a wide, goofy, infectious grin. "I knew you wouldn't miss _this _if you had to fight all the thugs in New York to get here," he told Jack with warmth and pride, then tilted his head toward April and Alex. "So why don't you introduce us to your new friends and get down to business 'fore Sarah kills us all for confusin' the daylights outta her?"

"Thank you, Crutchy!" Sarah wailed over the boys' raucous laughter.

Flushed and sheepish, Jack turned to April and Alex and pointed out each of his friends, naming them in the order in which they'd spoken.

"Allow me to introduce Kid Blink, Mush Myers, Racetrack Higgins, Boots McAleenan, Snipeshooter, and Crutchy Morris."

"Nice to meet youse," Alex said, stepping forward to receive a flurry of handshakes.

"Charmed," April added with a deep curtsey and a surge of wicked delight at the number of appreciative eyes that clung to her.

"Now," said Cowboy with a sudden note of authority after the chorus of greetings died down, "if youse'll all be good enough to sit down, there's somethin' I've gotta say."

The table went silent; the air crackled with expectation. David hurried to a nearby table to pull up chairs for Scamp and April, and soon enough, they were all seated except Jack, who actually looked as though he might pass out. April glanced around and saw knowing smiles on the faces of the other boys. Only Sarah's face was pale and etched with confusion, but there was something more in her eyes as well-a spark of hope, of dawning excitement.

"So," Jack said in measured tones, "youse all know how I've kept in touch with Bryan Denton...the reporter who helped us out durin' the strike," he added with a glance at Alex and April. "Youse know how he got me a bit of a job over at the _New York Sun _office, runnin' errands, takin' messages...heck, I sharpened pencils for Wilbur Chamberlin's articles on the Boxer Rebellion."

That got a few laughs from the boys. April ignored them, her eyes glued to their leader's face. Like Sarah, she'd figured this was just an ordinary supper. What on earth had she and her brother walked into?

"Anyway," the newsboy continued-he seemed to gain courage from his audience's reaction, for his lips had twitched into a cocky grin, making him all the more appealing-"most o' youse also know that my errand-boy days are at an end. A couple days ago, the boss called me into his office for a little announcement. Startin' next week, I'm an illustrious...cub reporter."

The table erupted in cheers. Harried patrons once again turned to glare at the nook the newsies occupied. The handful of waiters darting among the tables didn't even look up from their trays and stacks of menus; April had a sudden paranoid notion that they were in on this too.

"Woooo, Cowboy!" The young man with the eyepatch-Kid Blink?-surged to his feet and clapped his friend on the back, a blow of such enthusiasm that it nearly toppled the taller boy.

"An' you once told me we was beat when we was born!" Crutchy shouted in delight, and the younger newsboys, Boots and Snipeshooter, howled with laughter.

"All right, all right, pipe down!" Racetrack demanded in an authoritative tone that belied his small stature. "I ain't lost this bet yet!"

"Oh, come on, Race," the handsome Mush scoffed. "He can't back down after he's come this-"

"QUIET!" one voice bellowed, drowning out the rest, and another silence fell, far more abrupt and startled than the first, as every pair of eyes swiveled toward a flushed, faint-looking Sarah. "Did you all..." she stuttered helplessly, glancing around with the same suspicion that April had begun to feel. "Did you all know..." She whirled on her beau. "Jack, this is wonderful news, but _why didn't you tell me?"_

"Because..." Jack took a deep breath. "'Cause I knew that if I told you one part, you'd guess the rest, and I didn't wanna spoil the surprise." In slow motion, or so it seemed to April, he sank to one knee. Sarah, perched on the end of the bench, flushed brighter than ever and wobbled to her feet as if in a daze. She stood before the kneeling boy, looking down at him like a judge towering over a penitent. Jack met her eyes, and his next words were hoarse but audible.

"Sarah, we's been seein' each other for a long time now. I know I've made some mistakes...I've done some things that prove that I won't never be worthy o' you..." His eyes shifted, uncomfortable, then returned to her face and seemed to take comfort in it. "But you been good enough to forgive me and stick by me. Knowin' you these past few months, it's...it's made me different. Better." He swallowed. "With this new job, I'll be able to pay rent and buy groceries for two and, well...I think we can get by. I ain't got a ring for you yet...I was gonna save for one, but I couldn't wait no longer. Last night, I stopped by your place while you was at work..." His eyes flicked to David and Les, who were both beaming. "...and got your folks' blessin', and your brothers', too. So, uh...Sarah Jacobs, will you marry me?"

* * *

There were too many damn people in this city. Elizabeth hated the crowded streets at night, crawling with pickpockets, whores, stinking bums, and stumbling drunks. These were her people back in Brooklyn, and she had always moved among them without judgment or fear; her revulsion was not directed toward their individual morals or hygiene but toward the whole swarming mass, the press of bodies all around her.

But she couldn't sit in Irving Hall all night, drowning in memories, stewing in grief and anger and guilt. So she stomped down the street, like a glowering thundercloud rolling through the sky, in search of somewhere else to stew.

She wasn't thinking of a bar. She'd never taken to liquor, being so small and frail that a single glass left her dizzy and nauseous and spilling her secrets to strangers. Besides, bars were packed with people, and intoxication rendered them twice as insufferable. No, she wandered the streets with only a vague intention of ending up on a stoop or a park bench somewhere, watching the bustle of city life from a safe distance. In the meantime, she indulged in what may have been the worst of her myriad vices: thinking too damn much.

She shouldn't have said what she did to April. The stabbing guilt she felt now, the pulse of regret in her heart, was something she experienced twenty times a day, the natural consequence of a tongue forever lashing out against her will. In years past, she had periodically resolved to reign it in, devising clever plans to prevent herself from saying things she didn't mean: a string tied around her finger, counting to ten before she spoke, even starving herself as a punishment for every nasty outburst (Ada put a stop to this when she fainted after three days of fasting). The memories of that idealism now brought a bitter smirk to her lips. None of it worked, and nothing ever would. She would always keep on spouting barbed remarks, just as April would keep on coming back to the bottle and flitting from one man's bed to the next. People couldn't change their natures.

It was at this last thought that she turned, like a moth, toward the nearest spill of light, and walked into a bar.

The smell alone was so overpowering that it affected her almost like a gulp of brandy. Head spinning, she made a quick beeline for a corner table wrapped in shadows. Sinking into a chair, she rested her forehead on the cold, sticky tabletop and coughed into her cupped hands until she managed to adjust to the stink of beer and sweat and the heavy clouds of cigar smoke. The place wasn't actually packed-it was early still-but the chairs and barstools already hosted an interesting assortment, from boys no older than Beth to men who could have been her grandfather.

Male voices belched, bellowed, chatted, and sang, some in lyrical Italian, others in harsh German or slightly softened Yiddish, still others in the lilting brogue that Beth had heard so often back home in the tenements of Brooklyn. The only female customers were whores, of course, with their low necklines, slit skirts, and painted faces. The drunk ones were as loud as the men, their languages and accents just as varied. The more experienced among them sipped their drinks and flirted gently, imitating the soft words, quick touches, and shy glances of respectable girls. They kept their marks' glasses filled until the men grew maudlin and compliant and, melted by the women's tenderness, handed over entire purses and let themselves be led away like children.

"You waitin' for your papa, lass? Care for some company?"

Stiffening, Beth turned to face a balding, beer-bellied man whose eyes were already unfocused. One advantage of looking like she did was that men generally considered her too young and/or too homely for their lascivious attentions. But there was always at least one who was too drunk to care.

A sarcastic reply had almost reached her lips when she suddenly recalled an actress she had seen at the Old Montauk Theater some balmy summer night. Ada and April had flirted their way to a handful of free tickets, like always. She couldn't remember the name of the play or the storyline-something cheap and raunchy, no doubt; that was the only sort of thing performed in their neighborhood-but this actress had made an impression. Playing a frigid widow with ambitions of nunhood, she'd turned away from the rugged male lead, lowered her eyes, and murmured in a flat, forbidding tone, "You offend me, sir. My heart belongs to God."

Of course, she'd ended up being spectacularly ravished before a cheering, half-drunk audience, but Beth dismissed that part as the playwright's pathetic fantasy.

Now, harassed by a fat drunk in some dodgy joint in Manhattan, Beth couldn't resist his cue. She turned away and said, in a colder and more convincing voice than any Montauk actress had ever achieved, "I'm in mourning, sir. My heart is in the grave."

She watched the man out of the corner of her eye. He stared at her for a moment, then leaned forward, a leer spreading over his face. "Is that so? Well, maybe I can help you dig it up, huh?"

_Manhattan drunks_, Elizabeth thought wryly, _fulfilling pathetic fantasies one unfortunate girl at a time._ But even as her hand drifted under her blouse and touched the handle of a blade pinned to her topmost petticoat, she found herself reluctant to break character. "My heart is in the grave," she went on solemnly, "with my poor lover, Adrian. He didn't mean to give me the clap, but Papa shot him anyway. He must've been real mad...Papa, I mean...'cause he was fond of Adrian-used to say he'd make him the next chief of police when he retired."

The fat man sat back so fast that his chair nearly toppled over. He fumbled for his glass and took a massive gulp of whiskey. "Shot...the clap..._police?"_

"He hated water," Beth added as a dreamy afterthought. "Adrian, I mean. But Papa tied a brick around his neck and threw him off the bridge...poor, poor Adrian."

The man sputtered whiskey all over the floor. "Crazy little bitch!" He scrambled to his feet, snagged his coat from the back of his chair-it took him a few tries-and staggered out the door.

For a split second, a maniacal grin flashed across Beth's face.

Luckily, the rest of the clientele were too absorbed in their own affairs to take any notice of the incident. They went on guzzling drinks, dealing cards, throwing dice, harassing whores and barmaids alike, belting off-key ballads full of bawdy humor or nostalgia for their homelands (depending on which stage of drunkenness they had attained), and railing against their bosses and their good-for-nothing brothers and their mothers-in-law and their wives.

As Elizabeth watched and listened, as it became clear that no one else would spare a word or glance for her, she slowly began to relax. Sad though it might be, this was her ideal scenario: looking on from the shadows, lurking on the edge of a crowd with no obligation to be part of it. She was even able to take some vicarious pleasure in the dramatic spectacles unfolding before her; she found herself smiling at the humor, aching at the pathos, boiling with righteous anger over this slave-driving foreman or that unfaithful spouse. It was almost like getting lost in the pages of a book or the whirlwind passion of a decent play.

Best of all, it was easy to keep her mouth shut when everyone ignored her. For all her snapping and snarling, she rarely let loose unprovoked; if people could just learn to leave her the hell alone, they'd have nothing to complain about. That was her one and only goal when you came right down to it: to be left alone.

_Yeah? _mocked her inner monologue. _Then what the hell are you doin' here?_

It was a rhetorical question, designed to hurt and humiliate her, just like April's parting taunt. _Sit here in the dark. Alone. _That was the problem with knowing someone that long and that well-you learned exactly where to aim your arrows to pierce each other's armor.

Because when Beth was alone...truly alone, with no one else in sight or earshot...she panicked. Her heart raced, her breath caught in her throat, and a nameless fear overtook her. It was like one of the cruel, ironic curses from the Greek myths: she couldn't stand solitude and couldn't behave herself in the company of friends. So she haunted the sidelines of other people's lives, like Tantalus reaching for those grapes-always straining toward something she could never quite touch.

_Sweet Shiva and Vishnu, shut up! _she raged silently, cursing herself by her mother's gods, as their exotic names seemed to pack more of a punch. Her fierce glare swept the room, seeking some target, some victim for her perpetual bad mood, and it settled at random on a tall, thin boy in a pale pink shirt and grey suspenders, his brown hair ruffled and matted beneath a lopsided brown cap. He sat slumped at the bar, tossing down a handful of coins and beckoning impatiently to the barkeep, who shook his head but filled the boy's glass yet again.

Beth's eyes were boring holes in his back when he abruptly slammed his fist down on the bar, knocking over his glass. Something stronger than beer or whiskey sloshed all over the floor, and when the boy turned with a loud oath, he met the scowl of the little girl in the corner.

"What's your fucking problem?" he growled.

Just like that, Beth's mouth was running again, snapping off each word like a brittle twig. "I've got a lotta problems, actually. Some of 'em are crawlin' the streets o' Brooklyn, a few are six feet under the ground, and two of 'em are dinin' with a passel o' newsboys. How 'bout yours?"

The boy turned away with a drunken sneer. "Fuck off."

"Charmin'. You must have all the girls chasin' after you."

At that, he turned around so fast that the stool toppled over with an ungainly crash. He untangled himself from its wooden legs and struggled to his feet, ignoring the snickers of most of his fellow patrons. "You know my girl?" he demanded too loudly, staggering toward Elizabeth. "D'you know Irish?"

Beth leaned back nervously, half-turning so he wouldn't see her fingers dip below the collar of her blouse again. "Sorry, don't speak a word of it. I can do a bit o' Hindi for ya, though."

He came right up to her table and braced himself against it, leaning forward, exhaling his foul, warm liquor breath right in her face. "Don't you say a fuckin' word 'bout Irish. You stay away from her."

Elizabeth's hand began to emerge from her blouse. The dull gaslights caught the edge of a tiny blade. Then the boy turned away with a low groan and scrambled back onto his bar stool. He reached for something beside his spilled glass-a tiny bottle, the lid already gone. As Beth watched, he dumped an arbitrary number of pills into his palm and downed them with a swig of another man's gin.

"Hey!" The man was on his feet in an instant, a bulky fellow in his twenties, half-drunk already and eager for a fight. The boy in the pink shirt eyed him with a sort of blank resignation, an expression that didn't change when the man grabbed him by the collar and hauled him off his stool. "You answer me when I talk to you, kid!"

He drew back his fist, and before Beth knew what she was doing, she had leapt up and darted toward the fray, holding out her hands. All the eyes in the bar were on them now. "Listen, mister. Kid's drunk as hell, he don't know what he's doin'. Why don't we just-"

The man let go of the boy's collar and spun around to shove Beth into a table. She staggered and caught herself. The boy in the pink shirt was not so lucky, however; the moment his captor released him, he crumpled to the ground.

"Look," Beth snapped, backing toward the door as she met the drunk's unfocused scowl. "I'll buy you another gin, a'right? Just don't do anything you'll-"

"Skittery!"

A kid of no more than eight or nine dashed in through the door, his shock of brown hair sticking almost straight up. A curly-haired Italian of fifteen or sixteen trailed behind him, dark eyes dancing as if at some private joke, and a lanky, fresh-faced boy of about the same age brought up the rear.

"Skittery!" the little boy cried again, and to Elizabeth's astonishment, he shoved his way through the crowd and knelt by the boy in the pink shirt. "Hey, c'mon, c'mon, wake up. Itey, he ain't movin'!"

The Italian hurried to the kid's side. His lanky friend stopped to address Beth. "Do you know what happened, miss?"

These Manhattan boys with their bloody manners. "He drank himself into a stupor," she muttered, "and took a bunch o' pills."

"That don't sound good."

"Nothin' he ain't lived through before," the boy called Itey said grimly. "C'mon, Snitch, gimme me a hand. Not you, Tumbler, he'll bowl you right over. Go get the door for us, will ya?" he added, facing Elizabeth as if she were some kind of a conspirator in this farce.

By now, the fat drunk had lost interest in the situation and shuffled away in search of more liquor. Beth trudged to the door, held it open, and watched doubtfully as the diminutive Itey and his skinny friend slung a comatose Skittery over their shoulders with great effort and hauled him across the room, with little Tumbler bobbing worriedly alongside them.

"Where you takin' 'im?" she demanded.

"Newsboys Lodgin' House," the boy called Snitch replied. "Over on Duane Street."

Beth ran through her mental map of the area. "You ain't gonna make it halfway there."

"You wanna help?" Snitch demanded.

Itey shot the taller boy a weary look, while Tumbler looked at her with pleading eyes, his young face bright with hope. As usual, Elizabeth had a great many thoughts at once. She thought of her father's weary smile, her mother's false laugh, and a knife wet with blood, of her sister, red sheets, and cries in the night, of a bruised teenage boy crawling into bed with her like a child scarred by a nightmare, of dark whispers, accusations, and April and Alex leaving her in the theater tonight.

_Sit here in the dark. Alone._

"What the hell," she said, and she swept the limp Skittery's legs out from under him, holding his ankles aloft while the boys gripped his shoulders, and backing out into the night.

* * *

"To Cowboy and Sarah."

Blink raised his glass, and April and Racetrack raised theirs in response. Mush tried to join in the toast, but his glass went wildly awry and sloshed brandy all over the counter. He put it down with a pitifully confused expression that made April laugh out loud.

"Don't worry, kid." She downed her remaining whiskey in a single gulp-she wasn't even slurring her words yet-and ruffled his curls. "Few more nights like this and we'll have you on your feet after glass number twelve."

"You are past twelve, Miss Ka-Kal-Kaliga-you have had _too much to drink," _Blink finally declared with an air of superiority. A wide smile spread across his face. Happiest drunk I've ever seen, April mused as he laughed and threw an arm around Racetrack, whose thin shoulders tensed a bit as he eyed a card game in the corner.

After the party at Tibby's, the group had broken up and gone their separate ways. Jack had headed home with the Jacobs kids, arm-in-arm with Sarah, of course. Alex had gone home, hoping to find Beth, and most of the newsboys had headed back to the lodging house to rest before another day of selling. Not even April's wiles could persuade most of them to go out and celebrate their friend's engagement, but she had managed to secure these three, and they were a party unto themselves.

Well, two of them were. "You shouldn't let 'im drink like this," Race said, glancing from Blink to Mush before his eyes bounced back to the card table. "You know how he gets. Won't be able to open his eyes tomorrow."

"You ain't any _fun, _Race," Blink whined, pulling his arm away and giving his friend a gentle shove. "You ain't had enough to drink."

"I ain't got money for drinks."

"But you got money for cards?"

"I got markers." With that, Racetrack hoisted himself off his stool and strode over to join the game. Blink let out a theatrical sigh of relief.

"Finally! He's been holdin' out all night. Now he'll play a few rounds, win a fortune, and _then _he'll have some fun."

"And what about you?" April asked. She knew just how to ask it, of course. A quick twist of the head, a shake of her hair so that it caught the light, a flash of teeth.

Blink frowned and stared openly at her. "What about me _what?"_

She glanced at Mush. The kid's head rested on the bar, eyes closed. Out cold. She scooted her stool closer to Blink's, let her ankle bump his, checked his reaction-confusion, then wide eyes and a quick flush as she slowly twined her leg around his. She leaned in close to whisper, her hair falling in a curtain around them. "Don't you wanna have some fun?"

He swallowed twice before he got any words out. "This ain't really..."

April snorted. "Blink, what do you think of me? You think I'm a good girl? A lady? Just happens to wear a dress like this? You've watched me drink and smoke and tell dirty jokes all night. You know what I am."

The blush deepened. "I-I don't think you're..."

"You know what you want." She made her voice go deep, rich, and fruity. "I want it, too. I know more tricks..." Her hand on his arm. "Than you'd believe..." Her mouth on his neck.

It was so late, the neighborhood so far gone to seed, that the place was half-packed with whores and criminals by now. No one gave the scene a second glance. April waited a moment before slipping her hand under the table to make sure once and for all that she had him hooked. Then, with a dazzling smile, she hopped to her feet and took his arm.

"C'mon, Blink, there's plenty o' fun to be had."

She led him out, past the sleeping Mush, past the bustling crowd, and past the poker tables. Racetrack's eyes, which she would not have expected to ever leave his cards, somehow found her face. Appropriately enough, considering his hobby, she couldn't read his expression.

"We're gonna head out and get some air. All right, Race?"

He continued to look at her, then at Blink, then back at her, one eyebrow raised.

"What?" she demanded at last, wanting to hear him say it. They all said it sooner or later. Shame that it had to be sooner. They were nice kids, fun to be around; they could have been friends if she'd managed to hold off a while. Probably best, though, that she got it over with.

"I was just thinkin'...you'd be good at poker." Then a smart-aleck grin lit Racetrack's face. "If you wanna play sometime."

She eyed him, searching for the innuendo. It was always there somewhere. Brown puppy-dog eyes returned her gaze, full of impudence, yes, but of a more innocent variety. He took a drag on the cigar that never seemed to leave the corner of his mouth, tipped his hat, and went back to his cards.

Outside, hot breath and clumsy hands, popped buttons and a ripped seam. Alex was back at the apartment, but that hardly mattered. They barely made it into Central Park.


End file.
